


Lemons In Winter

by genarti



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Child Neglect, Fantine's life sucks I'm sorry, Gen, Victor Hugo Pastiche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genarti/pseuds/genarti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fantine's first taste of a lemon came when she was a child of perhaps eight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lemons In Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spiderfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/gifts).



> This was originally written for Spiderfire's prompt, at http://genarti.livejournal.com/188937.html. I liked it enough to keep it.
> 
> There's nothing graphically awful in this, but it does contain adults being jerks about teasing a child.

Fantine's first taste of a lemon came when she was a child of perhaps eight. It was a cold day in February, though not bitterly cold; there was no snow on the ground; still, for a child with neither mother nor father to put woolen coats about her and sturdy shoes on her feet, the chill was sufficient. It had driven her inside a tavern. She was allowed to stay despite her empty pockets because she was quiet and because she was charming, and because the tavern was not very full.

A well-fed merchant was showing a round heap of lemons to a customer. Fantine had seen oranges and lemons and citron before, sold in crates and in candied strips and in shop windows, but she had never tasted one. She crept closer to see.

As she watched, the merchant sliced open a lemon. Juice spilled onto the table, and the wet ripe gleam of its inner flesh was revealed. "Look! Top quality. You won't find such fresh, sweet lemons anywhere else."

The customer, a greengrocer named Savary, studied the lemon. He weighed it in his hands, turned it over, sniffed the flesh, tasted the juice on a finger. The little girl watched all of this. "Well!" he said. "It's decent, anyway. How much per crate?"

A sum was given. The greengrocer affected shock. The merchant affected sorrow. They haggled. A price was reached: both satisfied. They shook hands, shared a round of wine.

Savary caught sight of the little girl staring. He laughed aloud. "Little Fantine! You with your lemon-colored hair -- tell me, have you tasted this?"

Fantine shook her head. "No, never, monsieur." Her young voice was like a lark's cry, very high and very soft.

"Here, cut her a slice! Give me your knife, my friend, I'll do it. Here, then. Try it. What do you think?"

Fantine took the slice of lemon from his hand. It dripped onto her fingers. She was touched: the greengrocer Savary had not often been kind to her, but it seemed that the deal had made him generous. She examined the lemon with great interest. Then she tried a bite. She bit into both flesh and rind; she did not know any better.

It was awful. She spit it out. Tears were in her eyes.

Savary guffawed.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Lemon tarts! Little Fantine, my dear, do you like lemon tarts? Of course you do. Yes, we'll have two." Tholomyès glowed with the smug pleasure of munificence. His allowance had just come in. He had bought himself new coats, new boots, other sundries; he had more coin to spare. Fantine was tucked against his arm, wearing a new pelisse he had given her.

Fantine shook her head. Her eyes were cast down, beseeching and modest, for she hated to disagree with him. "I don't care for lemon. It's much too sour for me."

Tholomyès stared at her in astonishment. Then he laughed. Fantine's innocence, her little naivetés, were endlessly charming to him. Around her, he felt himself more worldly-wise than ever. "Have you never had a tart? My poor little thing! You don't know what you've missed. No, I insist. Try it. Ladies love sweet things."

In truth, Fantine barely remembered the taste of that long-ago lemon. She remembered the unpleasantness, the bursting rush of disgust upon her tongue, the mocking laughter. But Tholomyès was certain. He was impossible for her to contradict. And she loved him. He could be careless, she thought, but he was truthful, and his jokes were not cruel. So she felt in her warm loving heart. She acquiesced.

The baker brought the tarts on two little plates.

Tholomyès watched with proprietary satisfaction as she bit into the tart, a tiny bite only, and her blue eyes went wide. "Oh!" she said. "Oh! Delicious!"

"You see? You were right to trust me."


End file.
